


There was no knife

by TheMissingMask



Series: Basil lives [1]
Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dorian Being Dorian, Lord Henry is a good egg, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 12:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: "The entire series of events was a blur, right from the moment Basil recognised his own signature branding one corner of the canvas to Dorian’s hurling himself at Basil and closing his hands around the artist’s throat."---Canon divergent AU in which Basil escapes from Dorian's and seeks help from Lord Henry





	There was no knife

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Basil ran. His lungs burned and his legs felt like lead, but he kept running. Whether from fear of Dorian or fear of the painting, he wasn’t entirely sure, but something urged him to just keep running.

Dorian had revealed his secret to him, bared his soul in painful clarity, and the memory of that horrific thing that had once been his own painting drove him to run ever faster through the foggy streets.

The entire series of events was a blur, right from the moment Basil recognised his own signature branding one corner of the canvas to Dorian’s hurling himself at Basil and closing his hands around the artist’s throat. Dorian was stronger than Basil. He hunted and played sports, ate better, rested more. Basil spent most of his time drawing and painting, and often in his devoted attention to his work would forget to eat or take exercise, and certainly had never indulged in sports for fear of his reactions to the breathless and sweaty countenances of his companions.

Yes, Dorian was certainly stronger. Basil’s vision had started to blur as the elegant hands crushed his neck, his mind growing hazy, and his senses becoming dull. His hands had slipped away from Dorian’s wrists as the corners of his vision darkened, and as they began to drop to his sides, one landed on the end of an iron poker. With every bit of strength he had left in him, the artist swung the solid iron rod at Dorian’s head, knocking the beautiful creature to the ground. Basil had not waited to see if he was unconscious or merely dazed, but rose and stumbled towards the door, regaining more and more awareness as he opened it and ran down the stairs.

He heard footsteps behind him, pattering on the staircase just as he reached the front door. He flung it open and ran out into the street just as the footfalls came upon the hall. Not daring to look back, Basil sprinted into the foggy dark, hoping it would be enough to conceal him. Dorian was not only stronger, but most likely faster, and if he had sight of the artist he would surely catch him.

But then came the other problem. If Dorian didn’t catch up to Basil immediately, where would he go? Would he try to corner him in Basil’s own house, or perhaps at the station from which he had intended to depart? Neither could be conceived as an option for escape. If Basil met Dorian again, he knew it would be his end. If they met alone, Dorian would no doubt seek to kill him immediately. The sheer animalistic rage in the alluring eyes had made that more than clear enough. If they met in some public place, Basil knew that even one pleading word from the lad’s rose lips would bring him nearer, would make him follow, and Dorian would get the artist alone to commit the murder he intended.

Wherever he went, it seemed to Basil that he had no hope. All roads seemed to lead to his ultimate demise at the hands of Dorian Gray.

All roads except one, perhaps.

Basil ran almost without thinking through street after street, past unsavoury characters and through dangerous boroughs. He caught fleeting murmurs of shock or alarm at his incomplete attire, his coat left behind at Dorian’s, a shirt and waistcoat affording almost no protection from the biting cold. But despite the comments of those strangers he happened past, Basil barely felt the cold. It was if he had shut off from everything else in the world until his feet finally carried him to the one place, the one person, who held an unchanging significance in his heart.

There were lights shining from behind several of the windows of Lord Henry’s house. The entrance hall, drawing room, and library, specifically. The latter guaranteed that the man in question be awake and smoking as he mused over the pages of a book he was no doubt barely reading.

Basil ran across the front lawn, keeping as much to the shadows as possible, and knocked a trembling hand against the window of the library. At first, he was unable to produce enough force with the motion to make much sound, but with a steeling breath he tried again.

From within, Lord Henry stirred. Some part of Basil’s mind cautioned him that Dorian might have gone straight to his misguiding mentor, so the artist quickly stole himself into a nearby bush, not caring that its thin branches scraped away at his skin and caught in his hair. He strained to listen, to pick out if there was any other footfall or voice coming from within the library. The long, calm paces that could belong to none other than Lord Henry came muffled through the glass, and there was the clicking of a latch as the window opened.

Lord Henry leant out over the flower bed, peering into the darkness with a frown shadowed on his handsome face. A cigarette was held in one hand, the ash from its tip dropping onto the perennial shrubs below.

There was no sound from within the library. No silhouette suggesting of another presence. Reassured by this, Basil stepped out from behind the bush.

“Harry?” He murmured, still breathless.

Lord Henry stared down at him in astonishment, “My dear Basil! What the devil are you doing trampling my flowerbeds at this hour?”

As Basil stepped a little closer to the window and into the sphere of its illumination, the other man started at the state of his friend. Pale face beaded with sweat, hair dishevelled, no coat against the bitter cold of the evening, nor to hide the deep red marks marring his exposed throat.

Becoming uncharacteristically serious, Lord Henry motioned for Basil to climb through the window. It stood a few feet from the ground, but the uneven old brick work served to make the entrance less challenging that it otherwise might have been. Lord Henry helped Basil through, grasping his forearm to assist the climb and steadying him when he almost collapsed as he reached the other side.

“What happened?” Lord Henry asked, sitting the freezing man down in front of the fire. But no sooner had the words left his lips, and before a reply might have formed upon Basil’s, there came a knock from the front door. Basil looked in the direction of the noise in alarm, then back to Henry with an imploring expression, a silent plea that he not answer it.

Touching Basil’s arm carefully in reassurance, Lord Henry left the room. His footfalls faded as they passed into the hall, ceased, and shortly after the sound of a door opening and closing, there came the voice Basil had been dreading.

Dorian.

Dorian was here. But of course he was here. Lord Henry was his confidant, his closest companion. And no doubt he would join with Dorian in this against the artist. After all, it had really all been Basil’s fault hadn’t it?

Feeling his pulse start to race once again, Basil decided in an instant that he must get out. Straight back out the window and run to safety. But the cold and exertion had numbed his limbs, and he had barely made it half way across the room before the other two men entered.

“What are you doing Basil?” Lord Henry fixed him with a disapproving eye.

The artist was arrested in place, eyes wide and trained on Dorian.

The beautiful young man rounded on Lord Henry.

“Harry!” He grasped the taller man’s arms tightly, “Whatever he has said, you must not believe it. He has become delusional. He came and harassed me this very night. That is why I come. I was afraid to be alone, and…”

Lord Henry raised a hand to cut him off.

“Basil, sit back down. Dorian, take the other seat.” He ordered and himself walked over to the cut glass brandy bottle sitting on the side, pouring out three glasses and setting two before the other two men.

“Now,” He said, regarding the pair with a neutral expression, “What the devil is going on here?”

He stood between the two of them, keenly observing their silent interaction. Neither man said a word, but their expressions spoke enough for him to get the idea of what had passed. Or, the pertinent facts at least. Lord Henry had spent decades perfecting the art of observation and analysis of humanity, and it really was an easy study when the emotions were as raw as this.

Dorian had about him the look of a wild animal. Fine features blazing in an expression of rage and panic, one hand holding his glass so tight that his knuckles had whitened. Basil, on the other hand, displayed sheer terror, perhaps mixed a little with a grief that hid behind his eyes. The wordless interaction might have been a fascinating case, were it not for the evident severity of the situation. That Dorian had attacked Basil was clear enough. Basil had obviously escaped and run to Lord Henry’s, and Dorian had taken a cab, which waited outside still, presumably only alighting at Lord Henry’s after several stop offs in other locations, otherwise he should have overtaken the man on foot.

Dorian still had murder in his eyes, so on one point Lord Henry was settled. He was not letting the two men alone for an instant. He sipped at his drink in consideration.

“One of you is going to have to speak eventually.” He said when the silence had drawn on long enough.

When the silence continued, and Lord Henry’s impatience grew, he decided at last to direct the act himself.

“Very well.” He turned to the young man, "Dorian, why in God's name is Basil utterly terrified of you?"

Dorian laughed cruelly at the question, "Perhaps it is just his womanly nature showing through."

At that, Lord Henry rolled his eyes.

"Dorian, you forget," Said he, "Basil and I have been close friends for a great many years.  Do not think to shock me with some tremendously scandalous reveal of his lack of interest in the fairer sex. Now, try to answer in a more useful manner.”

Much to Lord Henry’s surprise, it was Basil who next spoke. Swallowing the last of his brandy, he fixed Dorian with a resolute eye.

"Perhaps we had best go and show him the painting, don’t you think, Dorian?”

"The painting?" Lord Henry looked between Dorian, paling with his growing rage, and the artist, seemingly bolstered by some hidden emotion.

"Yes, the painting.  It would certainly help to explain this entire circumstance." Basil continued.

Dorian glared at him with a blazing intensity that didn't belong in such beautiful eyes, and Basil glared back with a strength that belied his gentle nature.  At last, growing disconcerted by the serious demeanours of his friends, Lord Henry sighed loudly.

"Very well, we shall go to see the painting.  Dorian, is your cab still waiting?"

"Yes."

"Very good.” He finished his own drink and set the glass down, "Basil, you shall wear one of my coats.  I will not have you freeze to death before we arrive."

With that said, Lord Henry marched his two warring friends into the entrance hall.  He kept his eyes trained on the pair as he slipped on an ulster from the stand by the door and handed Basil a great coat that looked comically oversized on his smaller frame. Finally, taking his hat from the stand, he nodded to Dorian to precede them out of the house.

Dawn was just breaking over the London skyline as they dashed through the streets towards Dorian's house.  The man seemed increasingly agitated as they travelled, and his rage seemed intermittently to dissipate to sorrow and grow so that Henry feared he might try to kill the artist regardless of another's presence. He was somewhat relieved when they finally reached Dorian’s house and he was able to escort the men up the stairs to the entrance.

"Now, where is this painting?” He asked once inside.

“One of the upper rooms." Answered Basil, earning himself a fresh glare from the silent Dorian.  It amused Lord Henry to find the young man acting so much like a petulant child.  It was, in fact, amusing to the point where, despite the impropriety, he let out a loud laugh as he removed his hat.

"Don't laugh, Harry!" Cried Dorian, realising that he was the object of the jest, "Basil has wronged me terribly.  You'll see that soon enough!  And then you will pity rather than laugh at me."

"My dear Dorian, you don't want my pity, even if I cared to give it.  Now, let me see what it is that has got you two so terribly flustered." Lord Henry replied, sauntering up the stairs, all the time keeping himself between Dorian and Basil in case the former decided to push the latter over the banister to a very messy demise.

When they reached the room in question, Dorian ran to the door in horror.

"I didn't close it!" He cried, peering inside and then examining the corridor intently, “But all is well.  The servants are yet in bed. I can’t hear any of them about, and it is barely dawn, so no one would have entered..."

Lord Henry raised his eyebrows and looked to Basil for some explanation as their young companion continued muttering reassurances to himself, but the artist refused to look at anything but the bottom corner of the open doorway.  Dorian suddenly entered the room and was going to shut the door on them, but Lord Henry quickly darted forward and grabbed the edge of the door just as he placed a foot to help bar its closure.

"Come now, Dorian." He scolded, nodding back at Basil to accompany him in.

The artist obliged, and soon all three were inside the room, standing before the terrible painting.  Lord Henry surveyed it with that strange indifferent curiosity of his.

"When did you paint this Basil?" He asked at last, "It must be you.  I recognise the brush work, but it is hardly the beauty that is your norm."

"You know when I painted it." Replied the artist, "It is that very portrait you desired to purchase."

"I'm rather glad I did not." Remarked Lord Henry absently as he frowned at the terrible image, "I suppose this explains how you managed such scandal, and all that opium, tobacco, drink, and laudanum without so much as a mark on your pretty face, Dorian?"

The young man shrugged.

"And you tried to kill Basil here because he saw it?"

"Because it is his fault!" Dorian yelled suddenly, "It is his painting! This is his doing!”

Lord Henry remained entirely placid.

"But you were the one who made that excessively dramatic wish." He pointed out, then turned back to the painting, "Which I perceive has been answered."

The room lapsed to silence.  Outside, the footfalls of the servants starting their work for the day had begun to be sounded and the bright light of the morning was beaming in through the window.

"The question, I suppose, is what we do about this." Lord Henry said at last.

"No." Dorian said hotly, "That is not the question. The only one that need be answered is whether you two will feel the need to inform the world of this.”

"We won't." Basil said quietly, eyes affixed sadly on the portrait, "But something has to be done, Dorian. You must see that.”

"I fail to see how it is any of your concern, Basil."

A flash of pain crossed the artist's features at the contempt with which his name was uttered.

"Right, well," Lord Henry said, seeing the exchange going nowhere, "How about this…”

The man lit a cigarette, which alarmed both painter and model equally, their eyes darting from the matchbook in Lord Henry's hand to the painting not a metre away.

"Dorian's soul is, according to this painting, irretrievably stained.  By God, Dorian, what the devil have you been up to?" He asked with amusement, “But, Basil is a master with paint. So Basil, you will paint away all of…this.” He gestured absently to the painting.

"It's already varnished, Harry," Basil replied, "That won’t be easy."

"Then remove the varnish.  I don't know!  You're the artist!" He exclaimed with over-emphasised exasperation.

“Perhaps it could work." Replied the artist, “But how do you propose it to help? I am no priest. I can hardly absolve his sins.”

“Nor do you have any right to!” Dorian growled, “You are no less a sinner than I. Why should I have to apologise when you or you do not?”

This last he directed at Lord Henry, who shrugged simply.

“In the very least it will prevent others from being able to witness the extent of your debauchery. It is never good for the world to see one’s inner most darknesses.” He stated calmly, “And, I must say, your particular selection of sins is really quite remarkable. How much one can get away with when it does not come to bear on one’s deportment.”

“You’ll allow me to paint over it?” Basil asked Dorian hesitantly, seeing he had started to calm somewhat. 

The young man nodded, “Do as you wish. I’d certainly rather not look at that horrific thing any longer.”

Henry clapped his hands, “Then it is settled. We shall have the painting taken back to Basil’s studio this day and all remain there until this little matter is over.”

“No! He must paint in here. I don’t want the portrait leaving this room.” Dorian exclaimed, grabbing Henry’s arms in his desperation.

“Alright.” Lord Henry turned to Basil, “Can you have your materials sent for?”

“They are mostly in Paris already.” He said, “I will need new supplies. But, I can send for those if Dorian will lend me use of his valet?”

“Just write what you need and he will acquire it.” Dorian said moodily.

“Excellent.” Lord Henry took his companions, one in each arm, and manoeuvred them from the room. Dorian locked the door and placed the key into Henry’s outstretched, expectant hand. In the drawing room, Dorian handed Basil a sheet of notepaper and a pencil, on which he scribbled a list that Dorian read over carefully before going to find his valet and order the items be procured without delay.

And then the company each took up a seat before the recently lit fire and waited.

The wait was awkward and silent.  Lord Henry was unwilling to let Dorian out of his sight for even a moment, quite certain that given the opportunity he would quit the entire uncomfortable situation.  Certainly that was what Henry himself would most likely have been seeking to do were he in Dorian's unfortunate shoes.  If left alone with Basil, no doubt this fleeing would be preceded by a spot of murder, which was an event Lord Henry was equally disinclined to permit.  Thus, he watched Dorian carefully as the clock struck its way through the hours of eight, nine, ten, and eleven.  At last, the servant returned with the art supplies requested and the troop moved their silent gathering back up to the locked old school room.

"First I will have to take off the varnish." Basil stated, withdrawing a bottle of some clear liquid and a rough piece of cloth from the packet of goods, "Could you remove the canvas from the frame, please?"

The artist kept his voice level, unemotional, but Henry could see the sadness he was hiding as plainly as if he had been sobbing aloud.  They had known each other far too long for anything to be truly veiled between them.  And so, as he and Dorian moved to carry out the requested action, Henry allowed himself to gently squeeze his friend's hand reassuringly.  Basil smiled thinly up at him.

The frame was heavy, and by the time Henry and Dorian had got the canvas out from it and propped it up against the wall for Basil to work, the artist had set up his materials for removing the varnish.

"This will take some time." Basil said quietly, "If I'm not careful it will damage the paint, and we don't know what that would do to Dorian."

"Why are you pretending to care?" Dorian asked hotly, causing Lord Henry to smirk at his behaviour.

"I'm not pretending Dorian. You know that well enough.”

The artist knelt down before the canvas and began dabbing the liquid at the top corner, carefully working away at the canvas far from the actual image of Dorian. Gradually he moved towards the figure itself, beginning with the hair. He frowned slightly as he went, apparently deep in concentration. Dorian was flicking through the pages of an old book without reading any, whilst Henry smoked a cigarette and watched Basil work. He did not miss the slight jolt in the man’s frame, followed by a tensing of his shoulders as he continued to work. Henry couldn’t see the canvas itself, but he chanced a sidelong glance at Dorian. Thin lines had appeared between his eyebrows and on his forehead, as are seen on the face of men in their prime who have spent their youth in ventures of hate and disgust. The very same lines as had been seen on the painting.

Lord Henry made no move to indicate this observation, but carefully stubbed out his cigarette and kept Dorian’s actions in the corner of his eye. The younger man didn’t seem to notice anything shocking for some time, so engrossed in his own thoughts was he. It was not until Basil had moved to the hands, indeed, that Dorian suddenly gave a violent start and dropped the book, staring in horror at his fingers.

“Damn you!” He snarled with an animalistic passion, leaping from his chair and starting towards the artist. Lord Henry was on him in an instant, grabbing him round the arms and holding him back with considerable difficulty.

“I’m sorry.” Basil murmured, voice cracking with the threat of tears, “I’m sorry.”

“How could you do this to me, Basil?!” Dorian screamed, “How dare you do this to me! Damn you to hell Basil! Damn you!”

The artist paused a moment, hand stilling in its work, and a shudder ran through his form.

“Keep going, Basil!” Lord Henry shouted over Dorian’s cries, “For God’s sake, finish this!”

Whether the tone of his friend’s voice or the sheer rarity with which he raised it, that snapped Basil to himself, and his hand moved once more. Carefully clearing the painting of its varnish and the sin written into it, returning them to where they belonged.

When the task was at last finished, Basil curled in on himself and buried his face in his hands, trying desperately to shut out the angered cries and snarls of the man he had cared for so deeply.  A new sob wracked his weakened frame with every fresh curse emanating from Dorian's lips.  Lord Henry, hold on Dorian still firm, closed his eyes and tried to calm the rage building inside himself.

"Compose yourself, Dorian." He said sternly.  That simple order stilled Dorian almost instantly.

"He has ruined me, Harry." Dorian murmured, "Look at me.  Look at what he has done."

"You did that to yourself Dorian." Henry replied, "We all bear our own sins.  Why should you be any different?"

To that, Dorian had no reply.  He sunk to the floor, no longer fighting, no longer cursing or snarling or vowing vengeance.  He just sat and stared at the portrait of himself, beautiful and innocent, and began to weep.

———

Basil sat on the boat to France, with Lord Henry’s greatcoat wrapped about him, hands clenched in the fabric anxiously. He was watching the coat’s owner standing at the railing beside a shorter man in a low hat and large coat with the collar upturned around a thick scarf. In this cold season and with the freezing ocean spray forever accosting those who dared walk about on deck, no one thought anything of the man whose face was almost entirely hidden from view, save for a pair of cruel bright eyes and the bridge of his nose.

Lord Henry rested a hand on the other man’s shoulder, said something as he squeezed lightly, and turned away.

“Did I do the right thing, Harry?” The artist asked as his friend joined him on the bench.

“Yes.” Lord Henry stared at the grey horizon, “And, in time, Dorian will understand that too.”

“I am not so sure.” Basil said sadly.

Silently, Lord Henry took Basil’s exposed hand in his and held it gently, their fingers entwined.

Too tired to care about proprietary, the artist dropped his head onto his friend’s shoulder, clutching his hand tight. Lord Henry placed a soft kiss to Basil’s hair and continued to watch the endless grey ocean pass. A few minutes went by before Dorian walked over to them, sat on the other side of Lord Henry, and too lay his head upon the man’s shoulder.


End file.
